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SYLVAN LYRICS 



SYLVAN LYRICS 



AND 



OTHER VERSES 



BY 



/^ 



WILLIAM HAMILTON HAYNH 




NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
MDCCCXCIII 



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Copyright, 1893, by 
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 



INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

MY FATHER 

The heirship of your fire divine 
Imparts these wavering sparks to mine, — 
Frail sparks that yearn by love updrawn 
To find thee in the deathless dawn. 



CONTENTS. 



SYLVAN LYRICS. 



Prelude, 

A Band of Bluebirds, 

The Field-Sparrow, . 

In a Southern Swamp, 

Drought, 

Amid the Corn, 

The Greenhouse, 

In the Summer Shade, 

The Evergreens, 

A Pastoral Picture, 

The Wind and the Snow, 

Their City, 

The Red Oaks, 

Revival, 

Before Frost, , 

Icicles at the South, 

May, 

From a Rock, 

Through Woodland Ways 

A Spectre, . 

To Toccoa Fall, 



PAGE 

X 
2 

4 
6 

lO 
12 

14 
IS 
17 
19 
21 
22 

25 

26 
27 
29 
31 

34 
36 
39 
39 



CONJENTS. 



In the Autumn Woods, 

Crowned, 

The Emigrants, 

Vernal Prophecies, 

To a Swallow, 

The Red-Bird, 

The Nighthawk, 

To a Canary, 

To a Rain Crow, . 

To a Humming-Bird, 

The Screech-Owl, 

The Southern Snow-Bird, 

A Meadow Song, . 

I Cannot Sing with the Robins, 

With Red and Gold, 

Inconstant, 

Nature's Songs, 

To a Cherokee Rose, 

In Mockery, 

The Wreck, 



FROM THE 



On a Southern Beach, 
The Flight of the Gulls, 
The Sorrow of the Sea, 
On Deck, 
Far Out at Sea, 



SEA 



LOVE SONGS, AND OTHER VERSES. 



PAGE 
40 

43 
44 
47 
49 
SI 
54 
56 
57 
S8 
60 
62 
63 
65 
66 
67 
68 
70 

71 
72 



75 
77 
78 

79 
81 



At Anchor, 
Unuttered, 



8S 
86 



CONTENTS. 





PAGE 


The Serenade, .... 


87 


A Lover's Doubt, .... 


89 


The Seed of Love, .... 


90 


Love's Volume, ..... 


91 


The Difference, .... 


92 


The Last Knight, .... 


93 


Time and I, .... , 


95 


The Cup-Bearer, ..... 


96 


To Vesuvius, ..... 


97 


The Heart of the City, .... 


98 


Retrospect, ...... 


99 


Wisteria, ...... 


. 100 


The Soldier's Fate, .... 


lOZ 


Loneliness, ..... 


102 


Morbid Moods, .... 


103 


Nested Thoughts, .... 


104 


Extremes, ..... 


105 


The Outlook, ..... 


Z06 


The Dead Poets, .... 


107 


In Shadow-Land, ..... 


109 


The Angel and my Father, 


no 


Threnody of the Pines, .... 


112 


At my Father's Grave, . . . . 


"3 


To the Memory of Philip Bourke Marston, 


114 


Beyond the Bar, . . . . . 


116 


Sydney Lanier, ..... 


117 


Winfield S. Hancock, . . . . 


119 


One Day, ..... 


121 


The Happy Dead, . . . . . 


. 122 


The Gentle May, 


123 


On Easter Morn, . . 


124 


Literary Iconoclasm, .... 


125 



viii CONTENTS. 




QUATRAINS. 






PAGE 


The Head of Niobe, 


. . 129 


The Bust of Kronos, 


129 


The Bust of Neptune, 


130 


The Artist, .... 


130 


Divine Paradoxes, 


130 


Repentant, .... 


131 


Verbal Hypocrises, 


131 


Memory, ..... 


131 


To my Father, . . . * 


132 


Sleep and Sorrow, 


132 


To the Milky Way, . 


132 


Undiscovered, .... 


133 


The First Evergreen, 


133 


The Dying^ Woman, . 


133 


The Convalescent, . . . . 


134 


Opportunity, .... 


134 


Duality, . . . . , 


134 


Our Hearts, .... 


135 


A Musician's Fancy, . 


135 


WITH CHILDREN. 




Child-Nature, .... 


139 


March and April, . , . 


141 


The Grasshopper, 


142 


The Earth's Children, 


143 


The Outlaw of the Air, . 


144 


The Locust, .... 


14s 


The Baby's Dimple, 


. . 146 


The Wind's Lullaby, 


. 146 


Pine-Needles, .... 


147 



CONTENTS. 



Woodland Wires, 

The Words of Trees, 

Pansies, 

The Wrestlers, 

The Mole, 

The Snail, . 

The Boatman, 

Little Fred, 

The New Moon, 

Winter Warfare, 

The Rain-Drops, 



147 
148 
148 
149 
ISO 
152 
153 
154 
15s 
156 
156 



PRELUDE. 

Fine odors float through wood and field, 
And to the dawn their bounty yield : 

Borne from the woodbine's waxen cells, 
The honeysuckle's soundless bells ; 

The fragile foliage of the vines 

"Where morning's earliest dew-drop shines ; 

The moisture lingering o'er the thorn, 
The ribbons of the ripening corn ; 

The feathery ferns by lake and ledge, 
The wild wet grass, the silvery sedge ; 

The light leaves half inclined to press 
Their bitter bark in tenderness ; 

The honey of the wild bees' home 
Shrined in the cloister of the comb. . . 

All these the heart of Nature holds, 
And to the morning wind unfolds. 



A BAND OF BLUEBIRDS. 

(In Autumn.) 

Oh, happy band of bluebirds, 

Brave prophets of the Spring, 
Amid the tall and tufted cane, 

How blithesomely you sing I 
What message haunts your music 

'Mid Autumn's dusky reign ? 
You tell us Nature stores her seeds 

To give them back in grain I 

Your throats are gleeful fountains. 
Through which a song-tide flows ; 

Your voices greet me in the woods, 
On every wind that blows ! 

I dream that Heaven invites you 
To bid the Earth " good-by " ; 



A BAND OF BLUEBIRDS. 



For in your wings you seem to hold 

A portion of the sky I 
» « « » « 

Oh, happy band of bluebirds, 

You could not long remain 
To flit across the fading fields 

And glorify the grain. . . . 
You leave melodious memories, 

Whose sweetness thrills me through 
Ah, if my songs were such as yours, 

They'd almost touch the Blue I 



THE FIELD-SPARROW. 

(A Fable for Poets.) 

Smallest of all small minstrels he I 
And yet with no half-hearted glee 
He twitters in the tall broom-grass, 
O'er which capricious shadows pass, 
Or, sheltered by the ripening grain, 
Hears the cool cadence of the rain. 
With the first shaft of morning light 
He trims his tiny wings for flight, 
And the frail limb that forms his bed 
By sunrise is untenanted. . . . 
Cloud-filtered from the bending blue. 
He feels the dripping of the dew, — 
The only hint of sorrow shed 
O'er his unruffled heart and head. 
Though his blithe breast is quickly stirred 
By notes of thrush and mocking-bird, 



THE FIELD-SPA RROIV. 



No envy fills his healthful heart 

Because of their melodious art. 

Along green boughs their music thrills, 

To die amid the distant hills, 

Or o'er the leaf-bound valleys sweep, 

Where the low wind-songs fall asleep. 

Ah ! still untouched by envy's smart, 

The lowlier lyrics of the heart 

In strains unstudied he may bring 

With undercurrents of the spring, 

And cheerful through bright days or dim 

Outpour the songs that gladden him. 



IN A SOUTHERN SWAMP. 
(Autumn.) 

The sun that day played hide and seek, 

With clouds whose shadows crossed the creek ; 

And standing on the water's rim, 

I watched the minnows dive and swim ; 

While from a half-decaying log 
Came the hoarse croaking of a frog ; 

But when my cautious footsteps stirred. 
Above my head a partridge whirred, 

And the sly frog plunged in the creek — 
A moment's plash ! a guttural shriek ! 

Then having gained his sullen will. 
The frog lay mute ; the air was still. 
But suddenly within the swamp 
A sportive wind began to romp. 



IN A SOUTHERN SWAMP. 



Tossing dead leaves and tickling trees — 
A wandering madcap of the seas I 

Obedient to his wanton freak, 

He scattered leafage o'er the creek ; 

With varied color crowned the tide 
By floating foliage glorified, 

Then sped beyond my listening ear — 
To fields of autumn dim and sear. 

I turned to leave the water's edge, 
Splitting the wide swamp like a wedge ; 

With shadowy pools on either hand — 
A dismal waste of watery land — 

When from a cane-entangled brake 
Emerged the deadly water-snake ; 

Arched his short neck above the mire — 
A moccasin with fangs of fire I 

He paused but for a moment's space, 
Then glided with demoniac grace 



IN A SOUTHERN SWAMP. 



Down the slow current of the stream, 
And vanished like an evil dream. 

With eager haste I moved away, 
Through the encircling woods to stray ; 

Long forest vistas veiled in blue, 

With fitful sunshine shimmering through. 

This faint, fine haze seemed to enfold 
The hickory's leaves of burnished gold. 

Below the needles of a pine 

I saw the sumach's berries shine ; 

While just beyond, in contrast keen, 
I watched the holly's emerald sheen, 

Till near enough my footsteps came, 
And, lo I a robin's breast of flame ! 

On the black mud the maple's stain 
Lay like a shower of crimson rain. 

Blent with the golden leaves and brown, 
From oaks and poplars fluttering down. 



IN A SOUTHERN SWAMP. 



Within my view a towering pine, 
Wreathed by the dark ropes of a vine, 

A resinous odor subtly shed 

From its huge trunk and tapering head. 

One winged rover came in sight; 
A woodpecker, with restless flight, 

Gave the brown bark a quick, keen tap. 
Filled his long bill with luscious sap. 
Then darted round the stately tree — 
A feathered tom-boy, wild with glee. 

An hour elapsed, and then the fall 
Of night was presaged by a call 

Across the morass deep and still — 
The first note of the whip-poor-will. 

'Twas followed by a thick gray fog, 
The curtaining vapors of the bog, 

Through which was borne, with deep'ning thrill 
That strange song of the whip-poor-will. 



DROUGHT. 

The rainless clouds so warm and high, 
Blurring the landscape of the sky, 

Hang far o'er fields of corn and wheat, 
Shot through with soundless shafts of heat. 

No delicate moisture filters through 
The stillness of the sultry blue. 

Though shrunken grass and suffering grain 
Long for the rescue of the rain. 

Ah I soon insidious Drought shall kill 
All floral favorites of the hill, 

For now I watch too near its close 
The dwindling redness of the rose, 

And see its sisters wan of hue 

As flowers that never felt the dew. 

In forest depths the dry cocoon 
Hides silken secrets from the noon. 

Perhaps within its brittle shell 
Some fabrics of the future dwell, 



DROUGHT. 



If it survives all envious bloom 
To round its life upon the loom. 

A deep unnatural silence broods 
O'er lengths of sylvan solitudes, 

Save where the dreamy cattle stray 
'Mid the dead pasturage of May 

To view with mournful eyes, alas I 
The withering of grain and grass. 

The brooks are lessening as they flow 
Participants of Nature's woe, 
And thus they have no power to yield 
Their failing strength to wood and field. 

Upward they look in slow surmise 
And yearning protest to the skies, 

To find within yon boundless sweep 
No rainy radiance, soft as sleep, 

Until it seems, in every part, 

A hollow heaven without a heart. 



AMID THE CORN. 

Through the uprising mists of the morn 

I hear the pert pipe of a quail, 
I watch the brown plumes of the corn, 

And the fog with its lengthening trail. 
How shrill grows the partridge's whistle, 

While the fog wreaths are folded from sight. 
And I look at a wind-wafted thistle 

Slow journeying up through the light ! 

Like the ghost of a bird it has flown 

To the wind's heart whispering, 
Or the wraith of a blossom upblown 

From some dead garden of spring. 
Ah ! soon from the tree-tops remote. 

Of curious minstrelsy born, 
I hear the jay's jangling note 

Beyond the high tassels of corn. 



AMID THE CORN. 13 

Shy rabbits half-hid by the grain 

Now bask in the beams of the sun, 
Or where the dew glistens like rain 

The shadows of morning outrun, 
In the woods where the wind current siglis 

Through the canopied green of the trees, 
The squirrels with frolicsome eyes 

Are leaping aloft in the breeze. 

I could dream they were sailors at sea 

'Mid a rigging of vines and of leaves, 
But such fancies are fruitless in me, 

So close to the sheltering sheaves, 
Yet I look at the lark in his flight, 

At his luminous breast, like a star, 
Till hidden aloft in the light, 

He soars through the morning afar. 



THE GREENHOUSE. 

My inner air is sweet and warm, 
My winter buds are growing, — 

I keep their helpless lives from harm 
When bitter winds are blowing. 

My roof of glass is clear and bright, 

And has a golden lining, 
When'ere with softly sifted light. 

The winter sun is shining. 

When frost and snow invade the ground 
Spring seems a tardy comer, — 

But in my heart the leaves have found 
A lilliputian summer. 



IN THE SUMMER SHADE. 

I REST apart from the sun's fierce gleam, 

And the wind flows over my cheek ; 
Low cow-bells tinkle along the stream, 

And tremulous swallows seek 
Tall cliffs as white as the sea's soft drift ; 

While here in the shadows dun 
Long boughs their shining threads uplift. 

By the woodland weavers spun. 

Soon the wind is heard but scarcely felt, 
Holding vague hints of sound, 

While the brook gleams like a silver belt 
In the meadow's heart unwound. 

Green grasshoppers linger within the light 
Where the clumsier insects pass, 



IN THE SUMMER SHADE. 



And leap in their emerald armor bright — 
Winged acrobats of the grass. 

i^ {(:- ^ ^ « ^ 

Upward the wind flows like a dream, 

Soaring through infinite space, 
While shadows deepen across the stream 

Where the thick boughs interlace. 
I wish I could follow the wind's cool track, 

For the stillness girds me round, 
As if Time for a moment had travelled back 

To wait for the birth of sound. 



THE EVERGREENS. 

We watch far lovelier lives than ours — 
The sun-fed fruits, the brilliant flowers, 

The summer grain — an affluent sight ! 
The woodland blossoms red and white — 

And when the leaves are growing old 
Autumn's full recompense of gold ! 

All growths that gladden field and wood, 
By us are rightly understood ; 

For are they not our kindred, though 
They perish in the frost and snow ? 

"We watch their fleeting joys and fears — 
We who outlive the lapse of years, 



i8 THE EVERGREENS. 

To front old Winter's frowning gloom, 
With potent prophecies of bloom I 

We are the allies of the Spring, 
Whose sacred promises we bring 

To make Earth's bosom less forlorn 
Through faith in foliage yet unborn. 



A PASTORAL PICTURE. 
(Night.) 

Across the darkness of the night 
I see a slender thread of light — 
Light that approaches swift and clear, 
The earliest firefly of the year I 

A disembodied pulse he seems, 
Lit by soft phosphorescent gleams — 
As if beneath his restless ray 
Some ocean wave had gone astray. 

A slow breeze wafts along the rill 
The mandate of a whip-poor-will — 
Whose note revengeful seems to be 
Softened by mocking fantasy. 

The cricket's voice — an iterant trill, 
Teases the silence of the hill ; 



A PASTORAL PICTURE. 



The stars are cold and high to-night 
As vestal virghis robed in white. 

The darkness deepens ; overhead 
Fragments of cloud are thinly spread — 
A meteor's brief and baleful spark 
Of hurrying fire, insults the dark — 

A radiance of rare splendor born 
Like some red miracle of morn — 
Falling from measureless heights of sky 
On Night's black breast, to throb and die. 



THE WIND AND THE SNOW. 

Where dingy saffron tints combine 
To give gray clouds a dubious shine, 
Unheralded by wind below, 
The earth is waiting for the snow. 

Remnants of withered leaves still lie 
Beneath the noiseless winter sky. 
The wondering pines, by silence bound, 
Seem to have lost all sense of sound. . 

And now the stillness grows so deep 
It seems to hold a tryst with sleep — 
A breathless league that quickly breaks 
With the swift fluttering of the flakes. 

The branches of the pines are stirred, 
Responsive to the wind's first word — 
A fragile whisper fraught with woe, 
Music half muffled in the snow. 



THEIR CITY. 

It is a sylvan city, 

This forest cool and fair, 
"With homes in trees for birds or bees, 

And houses in the air ; 
Some of its inmates labor 

With no glad gift of sound — 
They build apart, through instinct's art, 

Quaint mansions under ground I 

It is a sylvan city, 

And through each rustic street, 
With gentle flow, the mild winds go, 

And make the morning sweet ; 
The humming-birds are happy, 

And haunt the fragrant vines ; 



THEIR CITY. 23 



While near the rills, the wood-birds' bills 
Are puncturing the pines I 

It is a sylvan city, 

And here the spider weaves 
His cot across the bark and moss, 

Or masonry of leaves ; 
The cat-bird's voice is trilling, 

A canzonet so clear ; 
One eager throat sends back her note— 

The mocking-bird is near ! 

It is a sylvan city, 

With scenes of w^ork and play — 
Sad sounds by night, dawn — music light 

As madrigals in May ! 
Half hid in summer verdure, 

I hear a varied throng — 
The dove's long moan, of plaintive tone. 

Blends with the thrush's song ! 



24 THEIR CITY. 



It is a sylvan city, 

Where healthful breezes pass, 
Where blooms renew, and blossoms blue 

Are twinkling in the grass ; 
And on this town of nature, 

Its homes in dell and glade, 
The sun looks down with smile or frown, 

And brings them light and shade. 



THE RED OAKS. 

In Southern thickets 

The oaks are red, 
Their summer beauty 

Has wholly fled ! 
The green was pilfered 

By frosty eves, 
But penitent autumn 

Requites their leaves. 

With crimson color 

The oaks are gay, — 
Their sylvan glory 

Is great to-day ! 
They have a respite 

From winter's gloom,- 
By autumn kissed 

Into brilliant bloom ! 



REVIVAL. 

When the ice has melted on river and rill 

From the talisman touches of morn, 
When the sap in the orchard has worked its will, 

The songs of the birds are born 1 
When the March winds vanish from meadow and 
brake, 

Rebuked by the opening bud, 
The slumbering songs in my heart awake 

To revel in brain and blood I 



BEFORE FROST. 

The breezes of heaven come hither 

To invade the vast cahn of the place, 
And wander I cannot tell whither, 

The nomads of infinite space. 
The shadows of rocks lie before me, 

And shield me from lingering heat, 
The gold of the autumn is o'er me, 

And the breath of the morning is sweet. 

The pines with their burden of sighing. 
Look down on the reddening leaves, 

And to them the sad doves are replying 
'Mid the harvested hush of the sheaves. 

Afar through the sunshine so mellow, 
I see the swarth crows as they fly, 



23 BEFORE FROST. 



And the larks with their luminous yellow, 
Against the blue breadth of the sky. 

Apart from the world and its folly, 

From toil and its terrible yoke, 
I watch the bright head of the holly, 

And the stoical trunk of the oak. 
How slowly the poplars surrender 

Their leaves to the rambling breeze, 
Whose music grows ruthfully tender 

Amid the dead bloom of the trees ! 

Apart from the world and its riot, 

With the spirit of Autumn abroad, 
I gain the great guerdon of quiet. 

Exhaled as a gift from the sod. 
Yet Nature is waiting in sadness, 

The first stealthy stroke of the frost, 
When bereft of all radiant gladness, 

The life of the summer is lost. 



ICICLES AT THE SOUTH. 

The pellets of sleet have ceased to beat 
On the snow-besprinkled ground, 

Against the pane, the gathering rain 
Taps with a sullen sound ! 

Over shreds of snow no wind shall go, 
Curbless, and strong, and fleet ! 

Only the rain, with a dull refrain, 
Follows the snow and sleet. 

jj& •ll ?!' ^ «le 

The rain on the trees has ceased to freeze ; 

('Twas molded with quaint device.) 
The bent boughs lean, like cimeters keen. 

In scabbards of shining ice. 



30 ICICLES A T THE SOUTH. 

'Neath frozen cloaks the pines and oaks 
Are stooping like Druids old, — 

And the cedars stand — an arctic band — 
Held in the clutch of cold. 

Through the outer gloom the japonicas bloom, 
"With the lustre of rubies bright, — 

Like blossoms blown from a tropic zone, — 
A marvellous land of light ! 



MAY. 

How softly comes the breath of bloom 

From quiet garden closes ! 
And, blended in a rare perfume, 

The royal scent of roses ! 
How tender is the touch of May 

While gentle winds are blowing, 
And in a sweet, yet silent way 

All sylvan things are growing ! 

How brilliant is the morning dew 

Amid the fields of clover ! 
Beneath a stainless arch of blue 

The mock-bird is a rover ; 
His songs are echoed o'er the hills, — 

Their boon of music bringing, — 



32 MA V. 



Till all the land with wonder fills 



To hear his rapturous singing ! 



How gracious is the light that gleams 

Across the dancing billows, — 
Or with a chastened splendor beams 

Above the drooping willows ! 
How fair are May's benignant feet 

O'er rugged vales and mountains, — 
And how her magic pulses beat 

Beside the brooks and fountains ! 

What sudden fervor thrills her blood, — 

Through grove or garden straying, — 
To linger o'er some tardy bud, 

And chide its long delaying ! 
What pure contentment fills her breast, 

Through thick-leaved forests roaming, 
To find the peaceful birds at rest 

Beneath the dews of gloaming! 



MA V. 33 



What month so musical and bright, 

So rife with vernal glory, — 
All garmented in air and light, 

Like some Arcadian story ! — 
Oh ! fragrant is the breath of May 

In tranquil garden closes, — 
And soft yet regal is her sway 

Among the spring-tide roses ! 



FROM A ROCK. 

I CLIMBED a rugged hill slope, 
Buttressed by rocks and trees — 

The loosened leaves, with fluttering faint, 
Plucked by the autumn breeze. 

There every sullen aspect 

Of Nature's sombre mood 
Was emphasized by frowning cliffs, 

Deepened by solitude. 

I viewed the lonely landscape, 
The rock-encumbered ground ; 

And suddenly my searching eyes 
One spot of verdure found. 

*Twas sweet to see a grim old rock, 
O'er which the rude winds pass, 



FROM A ROCK. 35 



Holding within its stony heart 
A tiny tuft of grass. 

The grass still lives ; the rock remains 
With granite firmness fraught, 

Like a stern man whose stoic breast 
Harbors one tender thought. 



THROUGH WOODLAND WAYS. 

I WANDER afar through the forest, 

In the dew-laden lustre of morn, 
With the grace of the summer pervading 

Old thickets of brier and thorn ; 
I hear a gay medley of music, 

Song-fervor unfettered by words, 
And feel the uplifting that follows 

A metrical mood of the birds. 

I wander afar through the forest, 

By the calm, glassy curves of the creek ; 
Bird-houses are built in the tree-tops, 

For high are the homes that they seek ; 
I look at the gossamer glory 

Of the mansions the spiders have made, 
While the boughs that droop over the water 

Cast flickering frescoes of shade. 



THROUGH WOODLAND WAYS. 37 

I wander afar through the forest, 

And flower-breaths float on the breeze 
With odors whose sweetness should summon 

A rhythmical raid of the bees ; 
I hear a swift tap that betokens 

A woodpecker busy with bark, 
And see the bright nonpareils flitting 

Far off from the haunts of the lark. 

I wander alone through the forest, 

Beside the green coverts of cane, 
And watch on the edge of the water 

The long, snowy neck of a crane. 
How fleetly the minnows are gliding 

Over silvery shallows of sand. 
While the minstrels of evening are hidden 

In the loneliest nooks of the land ! 

I wander afar through the forest ; 

With flower-breaths borne on the breeze. 



38 THROUGH WOODLAND WAYS. 

An incense of Arcady floating 

*Mid the foliaged aisles of the trees. 

I ramble through sunshine and shadow, 
With the mock-birds and thrushes in tune, 

"Wild roses and woodbine about me, 
'Till the morning is merged into noon. 



A SPECTRE. 

Over the frozen laurel 
The wind has ceased to blow. 

And the drooping boughs are shrouded 
In cerements of the snow. 

The wind moans in the distance. 

Retreating to the sea ; 
Was it affrighted to behold 

The spirit of the tree ? 

TO TOCCOA FALL. 

Borne swiftly from your lofty ledge, 
Impetuous o'er the rock's rough edge, 
You seemed, from that long gorge below, 
A vision wrought of mist and snow. . . . 

But now I hear your soft refrain 
Of rhythmic kinship to the rain, 
As if a summer shower had found 
An immortality of sound. 



IN THE AUTUMN WOODS. 
(Morning.) 
I. 

In the autumn weather 

Are sounds like these ; — 
The busy woodpeckers 

Tattoo the trees, — 
Quail whir and whistle, 

And wild doves call, — 
In the grasp of squirrels 

The ripe nuts fall I 

The sparrows are cheerful, 
And seem quite tame, — 

In the denser thickets 
With wings of flame 

The red-birds wander, 
The wood-finch flits, 



IN THE A UTUMN IVOODS. 41 

'Mid mellow shadows 
The autumn knits ! 

Far off in the meadows 

The cow-bells clink, 
Where thirsty cattle 

Stoop down to drink, — 
The crows are noisy, — 

The hawks swoop past, — 
Those winged banditti 

Who travel fast ! 

Through the tropical cane 

The bluebirds fly, 
With colors caught 

From their native sky, — 
The jackdaws chatter, — 

So does the wren, 
Those rival gossips 

Of field and fen I 



42 IN THE A UTUMN WOODS. 

On the loftiest boughs 

The jays are shrill, 
But silvery clear 

Is the thrush's trill I 
As his perfect music 

Outpours to-day, 
He forgets that summer 

Has slipped away ! 

II. 

In the changing forest 

What tints are these ? 
An artist is Autumn 

Among the trees ! 
The hickories glimmer 

With brittle gold,— 
And lurid colors 

The maples hold. 

To the waiting forest 
All hues are brought, — 



CROWNED. 43 



On a sylvan canvas 
In silence wrought ! 

No wonder it looms 
Like a pageant rare. 

For Autumn the artist 
Is working there I 



CROWNED. 

The rain retreating from the West, 
Leaves mists around the mountain's breast; 

But o'er its loftiest peak apart 
One strange cloud holds the sunset's heart. 

It lies upon the mountain's head, 
A vaporous crown of gold and red, 

And seems amid the silence grand 
A coronation from God's hand. 



THE EMIGRANTS. 

(A Robin's Song.) 

We fly far southward when the sky 

Foretells the fall of snow ; 
Or filled with arctic fretfulness 

The churlish east winds blow. 
We bid farewell to Northern farms 

Where summer-time was sweet, 
And preen our wings to leave behind 

The warfare of the sleet I 

Our hearts abhor the callous cold, 
In sodden fields and drear ; 

We need no compass made by man 
To navigate the air; 

And so our course is swift and free 
O'er sullen leagues of ground, 



THE EMIGRANTS. 45 

But always in the twilight trees 
Brief anchorage is found ! 

Our eager voyage ends at last, 

And brings us joy for gloom ; 
We find the evergreens have kept 

Their brotherhood of bloom, 
The holly boughs, in fadeless garb, 

Our wandering wings invite, 
As though their shining berries held 

Warm scraps of morning light ! 

The sumachs hoard their choicest wine, 

The China-trees their gold — 
They know our wish to emigrate 

Before the woods are cold ! 
To every crimson growth we lay 

More than ancestral claim, 
For God endows us at our birth 

With breasts of living flame ! 



46 THE EMIGRANTS. 

We fly far southward from the clouds- 

The snow-clouds wan as death, 
Where hid in arctic stealthiness 

The North Wind holds his breath ; 
We bid farewell to summer homes, 

Our small bird-pulses beat, 
And in an ecstacy of flight 

We leave the snow and sleet I 



VERNAL PROPHECIES. 

To-day the wind has a milder range, 
And seems to hint of a secret change ; 
For the gossipy breezes bring to me 
The delicate odor of buds to be 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 

Those forces of nature we cannot see — 
The procreant power in plant and tree, 
Shall bring at last to the waiting thorn 
The wealth of the roses yet unborn 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 

The early grass in a sheltered nook, 
Unsheathes its blades near the forest brook ; 
In the first faint green of the elm I see 
A gracious token of leaves to be 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 



43 VERNAL PROPHECIES. 

The peach-trees brighten the river's brink, 
With their dainty blossoms of white and pink, 
And over the orchard there comes to me 
The subtle fragrance of fruit to be 

In the gardens and groves of Spring. 

The rigor of winter has passed away, 
While the earth seems yearning to meet her May, 
And the voice of a bird in melodious glee, 
Foretells the sweetness of songs to be 
In the gardens and groves of Spring. 



TO A SWALLOW. 

I SAW your kindred by the sea 
Flit through the sunshine dreamily, — 
I felt because the month was May 
A little while they needs must stay, 
Though time is always flitting. 

Borne on blithe wings across the lea 
You pause wave-tranced beside the sea, 
When Spring with airy touch beguiles 
The serious water into smiles, 

Though time is always flitting. 

When Autumn's busy shuttle weaves 
A fatal net-work, round the leaves. 
Your brothers preen their wings and flee 
To sheltered cliffs beyond the sea 
While time is softly flitting ! 



rO A SWALLOW, 



You have a minstrel's right to roam 
Far from the nested warmth of home, 
And circling o'er this barren hill 
How joyously you seem to trill 
While time is softly flitting ! 

Through your sweet notes I almost hear 
The happy water gurgling near, — 
And yet I feel you soon shall fly 
Swift as a wind-song through the sky, 
While time is softly flitting I 



THE RED-BIRD. 

I WATCH his wings in thickets dim, 
For sunset seems to follow him — 

Sunset from some mysterious West, 
Whose crimson glory girds his breast. 

A winged ruby wrought of flame, 

Whence comes his beauty ? whence his name ? 

Clear as a bright awakening beam 
Through the vague vista of a dream, 

An answer comes. I seem to feel 
The flash of armor, glint of steel, 

The whir of arrows quick and keen, 
The battle-axe's baleful sheen, 

The long, relentless spear whose thrust 
Makes the mad foeman writhe in dust ; 



52 THE RED-BIRD. 



The din of conflict and the stress 
Of War's incarnate angriness ; . . . 

A wavering mass; ... a panic wrought 
Swift as some stormy burst of thought ; — 

Then distance hides a vanquished host, 
And sound becomes a wandering ghost. 

But soon I see, half poised in air, 
And stricken by a nameless fear, 

A small brown-breasted bird, whose eyes 
Are clouded with a deep surprise — 

The earliest bird with terror rife 
At a wild waste of human life. 

How soon his dread to wonder turns, 
As downward where a life-stream burns 

He darts and dips his quivering wings, 
While o'er his heart the crimson clings ! 

With ruthful eyes and reverent face 
He hovers slowly o'er the place ; 



THE RED-BIRD. 53 



And when at last his wings are spread, 
A lurid lustre crowns his head, 

And his bright body soars afar, 
Red as autumnal sunsets are. 



THE NIGHTHAWK. 

Gold tints of sunset fleck the sky 

With western winds prevailing, — 
I see the nighthawk soaring high 

His wings wide spread for sailing. 
He needs no pilot in his flight, 

Nor heeds the jay's rude scoffing, — 
He only waits the fall of night 

Far in the heavenly offing ! 

With strong and stately wings outspread. 

He longs for light to perish, 
And when the day is almost dead 

The hope he loves to cherish 
Is merged in action fierce and swift. 

When through the twilight swooping 
He darts where helpless insects drift 

And dull corn-blades are drooping ! 



THE NIGHTHA WK. ss 

Like some false strain of music sent 

Discordant through the gloaming, — 
His harsh voice fills the firmament 

To emphasize his roaming ! 
Defiance falls from his grim throat, 

And sets weird dreams in motion, 
Where through a treacherous bark afloat 

Sails down a stormy ocean : — 

If all our antique myths were true 

I should not greatly wonder, 
To hear athwart the darkening blue 

The Battle's voice of thunder, — 
With clashing of keen swords at sea 

By which I should discover, 
In this strange bird's identity 

The soul of some dead rover. 

And then in lieu of twilight trees, 
A black flag downward bearing, — 



S6 TO A CANARY, 



A pirate's pennon on the breeze, 
With wild, tumultuous cheering I 
* * * * 

My fancy fades when o'er the ground 
The hawk at lordly leisure 

Sends forth a queer and quavering sound,- 
His coarse keynote of pleasure. 



TO A CANARY. 

(In Winter.) 

The rill of music in your throat 
Flows outward with each faultless note, 
To touch the wintry gloom profound 
With tremors of ethereal sound ! 

Perhaps in some miraculous way 
You once imbibed the breath of May, 
And in requital you are bound 
To turn sad silence into sound. 



TO A RAIN CROW.* 

Your song suggests a subtle pain 
Your first forefather must have heard — 
Granting he was the earliest bird 

Who hearkened to the fall of rain. 

You think that solitude is good, 
And shun the crowded haunts of men, 
To live in some leaf-hidden glen, 

Shy-hearted recluse of the wood ! 

I watched you ere the spring had flown, 
And saw your likeness to the dove ; 
Is there no bond of sylvan love 

Between that bird's heart and your own? 

Ah, who can tell ? I only know 
There is a vocal kinship strong — 
Some sad affinity in song, 

Breathing of undiscovered woe. 



The popular name for the yellow-billed cuckoo. 



TO A HUMMING-BIRD. 

I. 

When bending o'er a blossom's cup 
To draw its liquid sweetness up, 

You act as though, in honied lore, 
You were a sylvan epicure I 

And soon above its brittle stem, 
Bright as a fairy's diadem, 

To some unsullied bloom you dart, 
And drain the nectar from its heart I 

O'er lily leaves or fragrant vines 
Your dainty body sways and shines, 

Until to some rich rose it clings, 
With kindred color in its wings ! 



TO A HUMMING-BIRD. 59 

II. 

Why are you always fleet and bright, 
With blended attributes of light ? 

Is it because in some far time 
Your sires of an elder clime 

To the young Earth were swiftly drawn 
From the pure potencies of dawn, 

And through the grace of Heaven increased 
From the first sunrise in the East ? 



THE SCREECH-OWL. 

I. 

He loves the dark, he shuns the light, 
His soul rejoices in the night 1 

When the sun's latest glow has fled, 
Weird as a warning from the dead, 

His voice comes o'er the startled rills, 
And the black hollows of the hills, 

As though to chant, in language fell, 
An invocation caught from Hell I 

II. 

He seeks the dark, he shuns the light, 
His soul rejoices in the night ! 

He loves to think man's breath must pass 
Like a spent wind amid the grass ; 



THE SCREECH OWL. 6i 

And oft the bitterest blows of Fate, 
His eerie cries anticipate ! 

Ah ! once he knew in realms below 
The mysteries of Death and Woe ; 

And in his sombre wings are furled 
The secrets of the under world ! 



THE SOUTHERN SNOW-BIRD. 

I SEE a tiny fluttering form 
Beneath the soft snow's soundless storm 
'Mid a strange noonlight palely shed 
Through mocking cloud-rifts overhead. 

All other birds are far from sight, — 
They think the day has turned to night ; 
But he is cast in hardier mould, 
This chirping courier of the cold. 

He does not come from lands forlorn, 
Where midnight takes the place of morn ; 
Nor did his dauntless heart, I know, 
Beat first above Siberian snow ; 

And yet an arctic bird he seems ; 
Though nurtured near our southern streams, 
The tip of his small tail may be 
A snow-storm in epitome. 



A MEADOW SONG. 

O COME to the meadow, with me, 

For the lark is hovering high, 
To bathe in the light of the sun 

And the south wind wandering by ! 
A thrush by the rivulet's rim 

Grows gay from the breath of the grass, 
And sings to his sweetheart, the brook, 

That mirrors his love like a glass ! 

O come to the meadow with me — 

Bird-music is gleeful and good, 
With Nature's full chorus of winds 

From the wonderful heart of the wood ! 
Forget-me-nots gleam in the grass, 

For the morning is mirthful with love — 
From robins that roam in the glen 

To the palpitant wings of the dove. 



64 A MEADOIV SONG. 

O come to the meadow with me, 

To the rivulet's emerald edge, 
And hear the low lilt of the stream 

Where the dew-drops encircle the sedge ; 
The young leaves look up to the sky, 

And the red-birds come hither to roam — 
They love the brook's lyrical flow 

And its delicate fret-work of foam ! 

O come to the meadow with me 

While the music of morning is heard, 
And the rapture of fetterless song 

Is sent from the heart of a bird ! 
Come hither, and wander with me, 

For Nature is breathing of love. 
From violets veiled in the grass 

To the tremulous wings of the dove ! 



I CANNOT SING WITH THE ROBINS. 

The feathered throng 
Make soft with song 

The barbed holly-trees — 
Along the stream 
Their red breasts gleam 

Light-hearted as the breeze I 

Their music floats 
From gentle throats 

Set to the self-same tune, 
Whose joyance seems 
Like winter dreams 

Of resurrected June I 

They fill with cheer 
The new-born year 

And chirp on bough and stem, — 



66 WITH RED AND GOLD. 

My heart forlorn 
Feels sorrow's thorn 
And cannot sing with them I 



WITH RED AND GOLD. 

With red and gold, — brief sylvan show,- 
Ere autumn waxes bleak and cold ; 

How the wide woodland seems to glow 
With red and gold I 

A glimpse of green in dell and wold 

The young aspiring pines bestow — 
Those trees by autumn uncontrolled. 

But every leaf that shrinks from snow 
Must fall at last to feed the mold, — 

Nature exalts them ere they go 
With red and gold I 



INCONSTANT. 

I. 

A WARM breeze comes from the South 
And kisses the rose's mouth, 
Whose red leaves tremble and part 
As if from the throb of a heart. 

II. 

This love,— of the wind's touch born, — 
Wounds now like an unseen thorn ; 
For the gay breeze onward goes, 
And heartsore is the rose. 



NATURE'S SONGS. 

They come unbidden 

To all who sing, 
From others hidden 

In blooms of spring, 
In foaming fountains, 

In vales and hills, 
In mists and mountains, 

In trees and rills. 

In sun and shower. 

In leaf and root, 
In bark and flower. 

In grain and fruit. 
Through changeful seasons, 

With equal choice. 
And rhythmic reasons 

They need a voice. 



NA TURK'S SONGS. 69 

From others hidden 

To those who sing, 
They come unbidden 

As birds in spring. 
The poet feels them 

On sea and shore, 
His verse reveals them 

Forevermore. 



TO A CHEROKEE ROSE. 

Thy one white leaf is open to the sky, 

And o'er thy heart swift lights and shadows pass- 
The wooing winds seem loth to wander by, 

Jealous of sunshine and the summer grass. 

Thy sylvan loveliness is pure and strong, 
For thou art bright and yet not overbold — 

Like a young maid apart from fashion's throng — 
A virgin dowered with a heart of gold. 



IN MOCKERY. 

The fire of sunset fading out 
Released the languid light. 

And Silence for a moment leaned 
Against the heart of Night. 

A little space . . then sound awoke, 

A bird-note by a rill, 
In mimicry of mortal rage, 

The lonely whip-poor-will ! 

Is there a sermon in his song, 

For trivial souls or great, 
Of half satiric sadness born, — 

A travesty of hate ? 



THE WRECK. 

Along the sky a surging wind, 

How swift and loud I 
Has cast away, in fragments gray, 

An evening cloud. 

It had the semblance of a ship. 

And so must be 
A broken bark, swept through the dark, 

A wreck at sea ! 



FROM THE SEA. 



ON A SOUTHERN BEACH. 
(Sullivan's Island, S. C.) 

The winds, with playful motion, toss 
The wavering waifs of surf across 
The listening strand, which seems to be 
Saddened by their frivolity. 

The sun, as o'er the beach they fly, 
Gilds them with glory ere they die. 
With rare, prismatic beauty fraught, 
And tremulous as a half-formed thought, 

These radiant bubbles fade like snow 
When the stern winds of winter blow 
Pure, fragile flakes against the pane, 
Blurred by cold kisses of the rain ! 

On a far headland dimly seen. 
With hillocks of hot sand between, 



76 ON A SOUTHERN BEACH. 

An emerald fringe surrounds the lee, 
Washed by the silver of the sea. 

Where shifting lights and shadows lie — 
Winged specks in space — the curlews fly ; 
Tall fishing boats, through distance dim, 
Now blot with black the horizon's rim. 

Above white drifts of shimmering sand 
A lighthouse looks across the land — 
Sombre by day but grand at night, 
When the wild water yearns for light. 

****** 

The listening strand now waits to hear 
The message that the high tides bear ; 
O'er clamorous waves the moonbeams wake, 
And the long billows shine and shake. 



THE FLIGHT OF THE GULLS. 

I WATCH the gulls as they gather 
On the verge of their island home, 

While a fleet wind blows, and their wings un- 
close, 
To wander with wave and foam I 

How swiftly they soar and circle, 
With the speed of a fetterless flight ! 

O'er the hollow sea, from the spray-swept lee, 
In the lustre of limitless light ! 

Their wings through the distance waver, 

Till under the sky's deep dome, 
They look from the land, like a phantom band, 

O'er the ghostly fields of foam I 



THE SORROW OF THE SEA. 

I WALK by the sea and muse 

On the words I have often read ; 

" The former things shall have passed away 
When the Sea gives up her dead." 

And I think since Time was young 
That the voice of the Sea in woe 

Has said to the Earth : " You claim my dead, 
But I cannot let them go." 



ON DECK. 

(Morning.) 

The wrinkled water seems so old 
At evening time, so gray and cold, 
But now the sun-rays glittering clear 
Somehow have got imprisoned there ! 

I watch the furrows sown with light, 
Or softly tipped with wavering white, 
O'er which a sea-gull soars or dips 
Far from yon line of moveless ships, 

Whose black hulls lie as if secure 
From ocean wanderings evermore, 
Yet wait, with slumberous sails, until 
The autocratic winds fulfill, 

The promise of the bantering breeze 
To waft them over spacious seas 



ON DECK. 

To Arctic shores or lands supine 
Beyond the vague horizon's line ! 

From the swift steamer's silvery track 
I see the impetuous spray leap back, 
Where ocean's deepening currents flow, 
Pale as a peak of phantom snow, 

A distant barque with sails unfurled. 
Seems anchored o'er a tideless world 
Of water widening from my view, 
And belted with ethereal blue ! 



FAR OUT AT SEA. 

Far out at sea unsullied breezes sweep, 

For there alone the winds and waves are free 
Nature's unchallenged minstrels of the deep 
Far out at sea I 

Old rhythmic instincts are aroused in me— 

To ocean cadences my pulses leap. 
I seem to lose the thraldom of the lea ! 

My heart forgets all shoreward hours that creep, 

'Mid languid yearning for dull days to flee ; 
Song gains the dual power to laugh or weep, 
Far out at sea I 



LOVE SONGS, AND OTHER 
VERSES. 



AT ANCHOR. 

My love was like a buoyant boat 
O'er sunny waves at sea, 

And in the voyage of my heart 
She sailed away from me ! 

I followed in her flying wake — 
The waves grew strong and fleet ; 

I passed by shoals of circumstance, 
And quicksands of defeat ! 

But little winds of coquetry 
Still kept our lives apart, 

Till in my cruise of love I reached 
The harbor of her heart ! 



UNUTTERED. 

No laughter comes, no gleeful mood, 
To change her chastened quietude ; 
And yet she needs no radiant test 
To make her beauty manifest. 

Sometimes the shadow of a smile 

Flits slowly o'er her lips awhile, 

As though to them it fain would bear 

Wraiths of glad words that perished there. 

No liberating spell can reach 
Where memory guards the gate of speech. 
Reserve, a heart-caught captive, lies 
In the pure prison of her eyes. 



THE SERENADE. 

Moonlight and music seek the room, 

Their silvery sweetness bringing, — 
To banish half the midnight gloom 
Around her casement clinging, — 

To gently touch her slumbers bland, 
And lift the latch of sleeping, 

Until like airs from fairy-land 
Through some calm gateway creeping,- 

Her spirit feels the spell of sound, 
And thrills to each soft measure. . 

By harmony her heart is bound, 
And filled with rhythmic pleasure ! 

Blithe are the songs that come and go, 
Against her bosom beating, — 



88 THE SERENADE. 

Those music waves that ebb and flow 
Benignly fair and fleeting ! 

But hark ! swift fingers touch the flute 
In clear, melodious fashion, — 

A lover's lips no longer mute 
Are eloquent with passion ! 

She knows he lurks in shadows dim, 
His tuneful message bringing, — 

And all her heart goes forth to him 
hi strains of silent singing ! 



A LOVER'S DOUBT. 

If we but knew that Love and Life were one 

On heights that rise beyond the baffling blue, 
How bravely would the heart's swift seasons run, 
If we but knew ! 

Ah, should continuance of Love be true, 

How vain the webs that mystery has spun 
In Sphinx-like silence o'er the spirit's view 1 

Does Nature foster hope through sky and sun 
On mornings bountiful with light and dew ? 
Was Love made endless when the world begun ?— 
If we but knew I 



THE SEED OF LOVE. 

I HELD within my lonely heart 
A seed of love's own sowing. 

*Twas blown so gently into bloom 
I scarcely knew 'twas growing ; 

Until I felt the stainless strength 
Of Passion's perfect dower, 

And in the garden of my heart 
The bud became a flower I 



LOVE'S VOLUME. 

Her heart was like a precious book 
Wherein her lover longed to look. 

It had a tiny golden hasp 

That slipped forever from his grasp. 

He wondered with an aching brain 
What the dear volume might contain, 

But failed to gain a fleeting look 
Within the pages of the book. 



THE DIFFERENCE. 

I. 

She stood beside the summer sea 
As radiant as the morn, — 

I read in her enraptured eyes 
That Love was born. 

II. 

She crouched beside the winter sea 
As though all hope had fled, — 

I saw within her haggard eyes 
That Love was dead. 



THE LAST KNIGHT. 

(" Amid new men, strange faces, other minds.") 

My days are darkening to their close ; 

I have no sword nor spear, — 
Yet once in battle I was called 

" The bold Sir Bedivcre." 
Companionless I roam the world 

Frqm dreary shore to shore, — 
But soon my yearning eyes shall see 

Brave comrades gone before I 

In that last conflict on the coast 
Our Arthur's flag was furled, — 

The standard of a stainless king, 
The wonder of the world. 

It shone superbly ere it fell. 
Without one sinful blot, — 



94 THE LAST KNIGH T. 

Pure as the heart of Galahad, 
The shield of Lancelot 1 

Yes ! I am he the great king called 

"The last of all his Knights," 
And I have followed where he led 

In half a hundred fights I 
His marvellous sword was never made 

To deal unworthy scars. 
And just above its watery grave 

Flashed like a thousand starso 

A mystic hand upheld the brand. 

For Arthur's end was near, — 
And thrice the good sword gleamed above 

The waters of the mere. 
Yes I I am he who watched the barge 

Fade through gray mists of morn, — 
And on the lone edge of the lake 

Stood voiceless and forlorn 1 



TIME AND I. 

We are two travellers, Time and I, 
Through gay or gloomy weather,— 

And smce he hailed me at my birth, 
We've always been together ! 

He led me through the land of youth, 

He journeys onward ever, 
And helped my toiling footsteps climb 

The hills of high endeavor. 

We are two travellers, Time and I, 
Through harsh or happy weather , . 

Unsolved the secrets of his soul. 
Though we have walked together ! 

He guards the mysteries of the world, 
Life, Death, Disease and Sorrow ; 

He knows so much, so little I, 
And we must part to-morrow. 



THE CUP-BEARER. 

(Suggested by Canova's Hebe.) 

Motion that seems in ecstacy of ease, 
Unfettered as the movement of a breeze, — 
With firm fair limbs in whose unrivalled grace 
Perennial youth has found a dwelling-place. 

Her hand upholds.the life-compelling draught, — 
That clear keen nectar which the gods have quaffed, 
While roseate tints from high Olympus meet 
Around the curvature of faultless feet. 



TO VESUVIUS. 

Born of the central fire of Earth, 

For ages you have stood. 
Our planet trembled at your birth 

In mighty motherhood ! 

Each smoke-cloud rising to your crest 

May be a deep-drawn breath 
From the lov/ heaving of your breast 

Yearning to deal swift death ! 

Sometimes your prisoned passion grows 

'Till streams of lava start, 
And through your fiery mouth outflows 

The life-blood of your heart ! 



THE HEART OF THE CITY. 

Can you not feel the pulse of traffic beat, 
Here where shrewd Commerce rears the gilded 

dome 
Of her vast temple, and men's footsteps roam 

Amid the bustling but inconstant street ? 

Here honest barter and keen avarice meet 
And speculative passion seeks a home, 
Frail as the glittering and unstable foam, 

Born from wan billows when the winds are fleet ! 
In scenes like these men find no sweet repose, 

Through sordid nights and long tumultuous days, 

With strained nerves battling for the love of gain : 
For them no gracious flower of slumber grows, 

With restful rapture past the meed of praise, 

In Thought's grim citadel — a burdened brain. 



RETROSPECT. 

A HUSH in the heart of the valley, 
A mist on the brow of the hill — 

Not even the light of an April star 
On the landscape lonely and chill. 

The eyes of my Memory summon 
No unshriven shadow of crime — 

But the wistful ghost of an early grief, 
That had fallen asleep with Time. 



WISTERIA. 

Wisteria blossoms drooping down 
Within the dust-environed town 

To March their blooms have given. 
What a pure charm their beauty brings, 
As though these flowers had taken wings 

And flown to earth from heaven ! 

They felt the year's young pulses beat, 
And grew beneath Spring's soundless feet 

Untouched by pain or riot ; 
And, ah ! I think their petals blue 
Are fed by draughts of deathless dew 

From some clear realm of quiet ! 

Their name implies a "welcome "* rife 
With the warm courtesies of life, 
In floral candor given ; 



* Wisteria means " Welcome, fair stranger." 



THE SOLDIER'S FA TE. 



And thus their presence should impart 
Sweet hospitalities of heart, 
And kindness caught from heaven I 



THE SOLDIER'S FATE. 

Deeming that Love and Hope no more 
Would come to him on sea or shore, 
In some fierce fray he longed to die ; 
But Death, disdainful, passed him by. 

And when at last glad tidings came, 
The homeward call to love and fame. 
Close to a fen of poisonous breath 
The soldier met an ambushed death ! 



LONELINESS. 

In moods of transient mournfulness 
With morbid meaning rife, 

Sometimes we prate of solitude, — 
The loneliness of life. 

But could we follow silently 

A single dying breath, 
How quickly we would understand 

The loneliness of death. 



MORBID MOODS. 

Some morbid moods are tainted with despair, 
Beyond the melting influence of a tear, — 
And though they seem so passionless and blind, 
Obtain a mournful mastery o'er the mind. 
Round sensitive souls they weave a subtle snare 
To make their mental foliage dim and sere, 
In lonely lives they hold a potent part, — 
The moral fungi of a famished heart. 



NESTED THOUGHTS. 

Our hearts are nesting-places, 

Good or ill — 
With flocks of changeful fancies, 

Seldom still ! 

Pure thoughts, like birds ascending, 

Love the light — 
But evil thoughts are sleepless 

Birds of night 1 



EXTREMES. 



Two rival spirits roam the world 
And turn the scales of Fate ; 

One through the potency of love, 
The other, hate. 

II. 

Two forces are at enmity, 

Divided by a breath ; 
The victory of one is life, 

The other, death. 



THE OUTLOOK. 

In such a complex world 
What wondrous things we find 

When'ere we pause to look, 
Through windows of the mind ! 

Then, as we outward gaze, 

A curious sight we see, 
As though this earth were but a hive 

And every man a bee. 

Yet all things are unlike — 
Each plays a diverse paf t — 

'Tis but the happy few who find 
The honey of the heart. 



THE DEAD POETS. 

'Tis strange to think that the past is old 

And the future forever new ; 
That the thoughts of the dead outlive their dust, 

As the morning outlives the dew. 
Time brings no blight to the grand old songs, 

Still fresh as the buds of May, 
Though the shrouded forms of the singers long 

Have mouldered in dust away. 

When the sky is dark as a perished hope, 
And the sad wind sobs through the rain — 

When Spring, with the touch of an alchemist brings 
A girdle of green for the grain — 

I think of the poets whose minds were filled 
With the marvels of night and day, 



io8 THE DEAD POETS. 

And I read with rapture the songs they sang, 
Though the poets have passed away. 

On earth they told us of lofty deeds, 

And the noble triumphs of love, 
So I dream they wander with fadeless feet 

Through immaculate lands above ; 
For I know that the mercy of God is great, 

And of them we may surely say 
That faith is the pulse of a deathless song. 

Though the singer has passed away. 



IN SHADOW-LAND. 

In shadow-land I wander far 

Without the clasp of that dear hand, 
Whose mother-love was like a star 
In shadow-land. 

Her soul has reached the shining strand 

Where waves that roll from Death's dark bar 
Lapse into light and music grand. 

She dwells where darkness cannot mar 
The hills of God, by glory spanned, — 
I roam where grief's gray memories are 
In shadow-land. 



THE ANGEL AND MY FATHER. 

(" The angel men call Death."— Face to Face.) 

The tender angel that he knew 
Came to him from the starlit blue, 
And, when his last life-force had sped, 
Soft heavenly fingers touched his head. 

The angel spake : " Behold in me 
God's herald from eternity ! 
On earth thy spirit saw in mine 
Clear guidance to the Love Divine, 

" Therefore I bless thee, ere we go 
To realms no mortal man may know, 
To heights beyond the utmost reach 
Of yearning human thought and speech," 



THE ANGEL AND MY FA THER. 



My father's voice grew clear and sweet. — 
He knelt beside the angel's feet, — 
" All hail I " said he. " Show me the goal 
Where sin is lifted from the soul. 

" Oh, take me through the void of space 
To meet God's mercy ' face to face ! ' 
Long have I heard thy sacred call, 
Lead me to Christ : He died for all! 

** But heal, dear angel, this deep woe, 
From wounds of parting, ere I go ; 
Let those who love me when unseen 
Keep in their hearts my memory green." 

The angel answered : " O'er thy dust 
True love abides and changeless trust." . , 
Then, clad in faith's unfaltering light, 
They journeyed upward through the night. 



THRENODY OF THE PINES. 

(For the passing of their poet.) 

The guardian pines upon the hill 
Were strangely motionless and chill, 

As if they drew his last loved breath 
From the uplifted wings of Death. . . . 

And now their mingled voices say, 
" The passing of a soul away, — 

" The tenderest of the sons of men,— 
Our dead King Arthur of the pen I 

" Oh, kindred of the sea and shore. 
Our grief is yours for evermore ! 

" His body lieth cold and still, 

For Death has triumphed on the hill I " 



AT MY FATHER'S GRAVE. 

I COME half voiceless here, and bring 
The sorrow that I dare not sing, — 
A grief set evermore apart 
In the veiled chamber of my heart. 

His mouldering dust can never hear 
The gentlest footstep drawing near, 
But far beyond our finite view 
He sings amid the boundless blue. 

And though I cannot see him stand 
Within the soul's illumined land, 
Yet somewhere by Faith's crystal sea 
I know my father waits for me. 



TO THE MEMORY OF PHILIP BOURKE 
MARSTON. 

Repress the tears that flow — 

God's love is vast — 
The poet has been called 

To light at last. 

His somber years were filled 

With doubt and grief ; 
The sunshine on his path 

Was strangely brief. 

Ah I memory to him 

Grew all-in-all, — 
His noblest songs contain 

The heart's rainfall. 



MEMORY OF PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. 115 

Because there is no bound 

To heavenly love, 
The poet's robe of rue 

Is white above. 

Because a loyal heart 

Beat in his breast, 
His soul has gained a boon 

More sweet than rest. 

From his long-famished eyes 

The night has fled 
And through God's grace we know 

He is not dead ! 



BEYOND THE BAR. 

(To the Memory of Henry W. Longfellow.) 

His voyage ended ere the sunset died 
Of song's immaculate music in his soul ; 
Ere thought and metre passed beyond control 
His Utmost Isle* with grace was glorified : 
No mantling mist with somber shadows vied. 
We could not hear the winds of welcome roll 
O'er sails unsullied, hastening to their goal, 
Nor view the whiteness of the gathering tide. 
But now we know the canvas was unfurled, 
Filled with the fire of Azrael's holy breath, 
To guide his spirit through the opening bars : — 
Safe in the harbor of a happier world, 
He heard " Excelsior " from the Mount of Death, 
And saw undimmed the sacred " Li^ht of Stars." 



" Ultima Thiile. 



SYDNEY LANIER. 

(September gth, 1881.) 

Life's fragile bonds united 

By fine-spun webs of breathj 
Scarce quivered 'neath the mystic stroke- 

The unsheathed sword of Death I 

O poet, preen thy pinions I 

Soar through Faith's radiant pass ; 
The mists of pain fade from thy soul, 

Like frost-films from a glass ! 

Thy worn, white body slumbers, 
Dreamless in Death's dark keep : — 

The drawbridge crossed, thy spirit feels 
No lethargy of sleep .... 



1 18 -S YDNEY LA NIER. 

O Music, mother of soft sounds, 
Let not thy tongue be mute ! 

For he^ through silver lips, evoked 
The language of the flute. 

And nature, though her voice is dumb, 
Through dew-draped blades of corn, 

Shall shed, 'mid Southern fields of grain, 
Memorial tears at morn. 



WINFIELD S. HANCOCK. 
(Feb. 9th, 1886.) 

How quickly o'er his couch of pain, 

To the brave soldier's ear, 
There came a mystic bugle-call 

His spirit paused to hear ! 

Responsive to the solemn sound 

He breathed a final breath, 
And his soul marching upward, met 

The stern commander — Death ! 

" Advance," said Death. " For duty done 

You have a heavenly claim, 
Obedient as a trustful child 

I called you and you came I 



IVINFIELD S. HANCOCK. 



" I am the officer of Christ 

And hold a guiding rod 
For spirits passing in review 

Beneath the eyes of God ! 

" Advance and take the soul's brevet ; 

I'll plead for you above 
'Till He who rules the universe 

Promotes you to His love." 



ONE DAY. 

I THINK a gentle soul 

The angels knew, 
Entered her tiny frame 

Before it grew ! 

Her spirit did not wrong 

Its sacred birth, 
And so the child remained 

One day on earth. 

She found this world of ours 

An exile's sod. 
And after a little space 

Went back to God ! 



THE HAPPY DEAD. 

" The seasons come and go, and the dead are at peace." 

— Wm. Black. 

The happy dead — like you and I 

When all our earthly years have sped — 
In sweet, unbroken slumber lie 
The happy dead ! 

O'er them the kindly seasons shed 

The beauty born of earth and sky, 
And peace to perfect silence wed. 

They do not need a tear or sigh, — 

Pain from their dreamless dust has fled,— 
They rest beneath the Eternal Eye, 
The happy dead ! 



THE GENTLE MAY. 

The gentle May, when every tree 

Is full of bird-notes sweet and gay, 
It is the loveliest month to me, 
The gentle May. 

All arctic things have passed away, 

And Nature filled with vernal glee 
Revels in bloom the livelong day. 

Perhaps the dead — ah, can it be ? — 
In some divine, mysterious way 
Through dreams of resurrection see 
The gentle May. 



ON EASTER MORN. 

On Easter morn the earth is bright, 

For Christ has shed His crown of thorn- 
The barbed points blossom into light 
On Easter morn 1 

To loyal souls new joy is born, 

And spring in reverence for the right, 
Confronts with bloom the skeptic's scorn. 

All hearts that recognize the might 
Of love that leaves no life forlorn 
Are lifted to a heavenly height 
On Easter morn ! 



LITERARY ICONOCLASM. 

In antique years when Homer's muse was young, 
The poet's name was passed from tongue to tongue, 
Now his identity has grown so dim, 
Some modern minds have lost all faith in him. 

And Shakespeare, robbed of his self-centered fame, 
Becomes the adumbration of a name, 
When'ere in him the mental skeptics find 
All unknown attributes of Bacon's mind ! 



QUATRAINS. 



THE HEAD OF NIOBE. 

(In the Uffizi Gallery.) 

Lips that withhold the anguish she had known, 
Perpetual pathos in the voiceless stone, — 
The eyes decreed in dead Olympian years 
A mournful immortality of tears. 

THE BUST OF KRONOS. 
(In the Vatican Museum.) 

A HALF-veiled head, a sad, unfurrowed face, 
Titanic power and more than mortal grace ; 
Across wan lips and eyes bereft of light 
The awful shadow of unending night. 



THE BUST OF NEPTUNE. 

(In the Vatican Museum.) 

A HEAD that ruled the mysteries of the main, 
Tumultuous anger or impassioned pain, — 
Unfathomed eyes with chest and shoulders bare 
And the salt sea-wind ambushed in his hair. 

THE ARTIST. 

Sleep is an artist of the night, 
With moods of mirth or pain, — 

Dreams are his pictures dark and bright 
Etched swiftly on the brain. 

DIVINE PARADOXES. 

It seems impossible to understand 
How Joy and Sorrow may be hand in hand, 
Yet God created when the Earth was born 
The changeless paradox of Night and Morn. 



REPENTANT. 

This summer breeze fraught with repentant sighs, — 
Once a fleet force no heavenly law could bind — 

Now wandering earthward, in a gentler guise. 
Is but the ghost of some fierce winter wind. 

VERBAL HYPOCRISIES. 

The noblest words, if falsely said or sung, 
Are but the smooth Delilahs of the tongue. 
With softness, deadlier than a brutal blow, 
Truth is the Samson that they overthrow ! 

MEMORY. 

Memory is a gleaner of the mind. 

Her sheaves are harvested with smiles or tears — 
And in the storehouse of the heart we find 

What she has gathered through the fleeting years. 



TO MY FATHER. 
(Written on his fifty-sixth birthday.) 

It matters not that Time has shed 
His thawless snow upon your head, — 
For he maintains, with wondrous art, 
Perpetual summer in your heart. 

SLEEP AND SORROW. 

Sleep fain would rescue me from deep distress, 
But wan-hued Sorrow haunts my spirit's view, — 

I hear through rifts of frequent wakefulness 
The mournful rustling of her robes of rue. 

TO THE MILKY WAY : AN INDIAN FANCY. 

Pure league of stars from garish light withdrawn, 
Behind celestial lace-work pale as foam, — 

I think between the midnight and the dawn 

Souls pass through you to their mysterious home. 



UNDISCOVERED. 

There is a burden of recurrent pain 
And tragic hints of heart-break in the rain, 
Heard through the pauses of the maddened wind 
Searching for something that it cannot find ! 

THE FIRST EVERGREEN. 

(A Phantasy.) 

A TREE absolved from Nature's annual gloom 
To gain the glory of perennial bloom, 
Because a seed borne by the tropic breeze 
Fell in the garden of Hesperides. 

THE DYING WOMAN. 

What reverent expectation lies 
In her clasped hands and prayerful eyes, — 
Because she hears, through ebbing breath, 
The swift-approaching feet of Death ! 



THE CONVALESCENT. 

How dreamily the sick man lies, 

"With gentle wonder in his eyes, — 

Like one who hears, through languid breath, 

The slow-receding feet of Death ! 

OPPORTUNITY. 

ALL-powerful am I to make or mar, 

To keep lives lowly or proclaim them great,— 
Some find in me their soul's ascendant star, 

And others but the will-o'wisp of Fate. 

DUALITY. 

Some hearts that seem as candid as the sky 
Are burnished by a bland hypocrisy, — 
While others like rude ore within the mould 
Need but assayer's skill to prove them gold. 




OUR HEARTS. 

Our hearts are watches, and every beat 
Is a tick that registers Time's retreat ; 
In the Father's mansion, with marvels rife, 
Is the key that has wound them up for life. 

A MUSICIAN'S FANCY. 

Is that the tune that roamed without a wing 
Through wearied brain, o'er lips that could not sing ? 
Yes ; 'tis the thrush, in sweet, unconscious glee, 
Who sends to heaven the song that baffled me. 



WITH CHILDREN. 



CHILD-NATURE. 

A MAN may be noble and great, 

And a woman tender and pure, 
But their knowledge, if deeper, is less divine 

Than childhood's innocent lore. 
Ah ! why should we wonder at this ? 

For God on the little ones smiled. 
And we often lose with the lapse of years 

The flawless faith of a child. 

A man may be gallant and gay. 

And a woman joyous and bright. 
But they seldom keep through the waning years 

The passion of pure delight. 
Ah ! why should we wonder at this ? 

For God on the little ones smiled, 
And a harmless lightning of laughter plays 

Round the guileless lips of a child. 



I40 CHILD-NA TURE. 

Then happy are those who cherish 

Youth's hopes and its fleeting tears, 
And some clear signs of their childhood keep 

Through a circle of changeful years. 
Ah I why should we wonder at this ? 

For God on the little ones smiled, 
And the heads of the Wise Men bent above 

The cradle that held a child I 



MARCH AND APRIL. 

March is a boisterous fellow, 

And undeterred by fear, 
With many pranks proclaims himself 

The tomboy of the year I 

Sweet April is his sister — 

Her eyes are often dim — 
Pained by the thought that he is dead, 

She sheds her tears for him. 



THE GRASSHOPPER. 

He jumps so high in sun and shade, 

I stop to see him pass, — 
A gymnast of the glen and glade, 

Whose circus is the grass 1 
The sand is 'round him like a ring, — 

He has no wish to halt, — 
I see the supple fellow spring 

To make a somersault ! 

Though he is volatile and fast. 

His feet are slim as pegs; 
How can his reckless motions last 

Upon such slender legs ? 
Below him lazy beetles creep ; 

He gyrates 'round and 'round,- 
One moment vaulting in a leap, 

The next upon the ground ! 



THE EARTH'S CHILDREN, 143 

He hops amid the fallen twigs 

So agile in his glee, 
I'm sure he's danced a hundred jigs 

With no one near to see ! 
He tumbles up, he tumbles down ! 

And, from his motley hue, 
'Tis clear he is an insect clown 

Beneath a tent of blue I 



THE EARTH'S CHILDREN. 

The flowers and the grass must be 

Devoted to each other. 
For they can claim with equal love 

The old Earth for a mother. 

I fancy when the Earth was young 
She told the birds and bees : 

" My children are the grass and flowers, 
My grown folks are the trees." 



THE OUTLAW OF THE AIR. 

I KNOW an outlaw of the air 

In wait for every cry, 
But too impalpable I fear 

For any one to spy. 

He loves a lusty howl or shout, 
Lung-power in dog or man, — 

And cunningly he lurks about 
To steal it if he can. 

By moral law he is not bound 
And Christians should not blame 

So swift a plagiarist of sound, — 
For Echo is his name ! 



THE LOCUST. 

Amid the noonday drowsiness 

His voice is strangely shrill — 
He has a sturdy pair of lungs, 

And self-asserting will ! 
To modest minstrels of the grass 

He does a grievous wrong, 
As though he would exterminate 

Their music in his song. 

He emigrates from place to place, 
His mode of life is rude ; 

He's something of a vagabond 
In gormandizing food ! 

And yet this insect egotist, 
Disdaining bee and bird. 

Is like some noisy folks we know- 
Determined to be heard. 



THE BABY'S DIMPLE. 

A SOUTH wind sought the baby's cheek, 
Fresh from a laughing billow, 

And blew in elfish glee against 
The small face on the pillow. 

What did the wind leave as a gift, 
Bewitching, coy, yet simple ? 

Surely his warm kiss must have made 
That wee, attractive dimple I 

THE WIND'S LULLABY. 

The nest contains a baby brood ; 
Mother has gone to bring them food — 
Four fragile birds too young to be 
Left all alone on this big tree. 

The wind comes gently from the west 
And lingers round the cozy nest. 
With tender tunes that need no words 
It rocks the cradle of the birds I 



PINE-NEEDLES. 

If Mother Nature patches 
The leaves of trees and vines, 

I'm sure she does her darnmg 
With needles of the pines I 

They are so long and slender ; 

And sometimes, in full view, 
They have their thread of cobwebs, 

And thimbles made of dew I 

WOODLAND WIRES. 

The wires of cobweb that I see 
Stretched cunningly from tree to tree, 
For sylvan citizens are rife 
With all the news of woodland life. 

Along the wires in shade or^sun 

The insect operators run, — 

And send, through signals swift and good. 

The telegrams of field and wood. 



THE WORDS OF TREES. 

If the wind has an alphabet 

And the trees know it well 
Then it is natural to suppose 

That they can read and spell. 
And when their boughs are swaying, 

Full of green leaves or bare, 
They still are practising the art 

Of writing in the air ! 

PANSIES. 

Soft as silk or satin, 
And lovelier to behold 
In their blended beauty 
Of purple and of gold I 

'Mid the gentle moonlight 
With no mortal near, 

They may be the dresses 
That the fairies wear ! 



THE WRESTLERS. 

Their shape is like the letter X, 

As they together stand, 
But all unlike our human kind, 

Without a foot or hand. 
They need assistance from the wind 

Before they bend in fight ; 
Encouraged by a sportive breeze, 

They hold each other tight. 

Are they in jest or earnest ? 

I'm sure 'tis hard to tell. 
Each tongueless little combatant 

Can neither speak nor spell. 
It is a curious contest 

Where both are deaf and blind — 
Two champions of twisted grass 

That wrestle in the wind. 



THE MOLE. 

His skin is gray as though he were 

A curious kind of mouse ; 
Yet his ancestors never were 

The inmates of a house. 

He loves the darkness of the soil, 
Where, safe from sight and sound, 

He burrows at his ease, and builds 
A tunnel through the ground. 

If insect armies travel there, 

Perhaps he gathers toll ; 
For if no cunning he possessed. 

How could he be a mole ? 

He is a skilful architect ; 

At work he does not nod. 
And with miraculous swiftness makes 

A fortress of the sod. 



THE MOLE. xji 

And yet if he believes in war 

I have not found it out ; 
And of his courage in the field 

I have a serious doubt. 

He'd rather delve within the dirt 

Than gaze upon the sky, 
It takes no old philosopher 

To state the reason why. 

He could not dwell above the earth ; 

His labors would be missed ; 
He needs the science of the soil — 

This dumb geologist. 



THE SNAIL. 

He is not sociable, and so 

He loves to live alone, 
And, like an anchorite, he has 

A cloister of his own. 

He travels slowly o'er the ground, 
And needs but little food ; 

No noisy insect need attempt 
To share his solitude. 

The tiny cell in which he lives 
Is somewhat moist and dim ; 

On every journey he's compelled 
To take his home with him. 



THE BOATMAN. 

There is an unseen boatman 
Who makes the white clouds fly 

Just like a fleet of fairy skiffs 
Across the summer sky. 

And all the tiny vessels 
Seem sailing on in sport, 

The blithe wind for a boatman 
To waft them into port. 



LITTLE FRED. 

I HAVE a frisky little friend, 
He's six months old to-day ! 

Why does he shake his head and whine 
In such a serious way ? 

Because he is a dog and feels 
That fleas are torturing things, 

And often wishes he could fly 
Far from their teasing stings. 

Fred's eyes are black as berries, 

His hair is soft and fine ; 
In spite of naughty insects, 

He loves to sup and dine I 

He knows the happy hour, 
The time of bones and bread ! 

Oh 1 he is nimble on his feet. 
Quick-witted in his headl 



THE NEW MOON. 155 

He barks at my old tom-cat 

To interrupt his meal, 
But Thomas slaps him in the face, 

And makes poor Freddie squeal I 

I'd put Fred in the primer, if 

'Twas not against the rule 
For dogs to learn their A, B, C's, 

And go, like boys, to school ! 

THE NEW MOON. 

Little Mary stood by the window 
And saw the new moon in the sky, 

" It looks like a slice of melon," said she, 
" And I wish you would tell me why." 

But I never told her the reason 
For she settled the question soon : 

" The big blue sky got hungry. 
And ate up most of the moon I " 



WINTER WARFARE. 

The bullets of the sleet 

Attacking roof and pane 
Are arctic transformations 

Of melodious rain. 

Against the leafless trees 
They wage a warfare rude, — 

Winter must have molded them 
In an angry mood ! 

THE RAIN-DROPS. 

The big and little rain-drops 
Are all of heavenly birth, 

But though their home is in the sky 
They fall upon the earth ! 

When they begin to frolic 

Within a world so blue, 
They tear the curtains of the clouds 

And tumble swiftly through I 



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